The Serpent Beguiled Me (and I did eat)
by AvaRosier
Summary: "This is what I have ascertained thus far: you have been visiting the elder Mr Hale since August. I want you to understand that men like Peter Hale, they are wolves in the night, looking to take advantage of innocent young women like you…" (Colonial New England AU, reimagining the Little Red Riding Hood tale, based on Angela Carter's works)


_And the LORD God said unto the woman, What is this that thou hast done? And the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat. _ (Genesis 3:13)

Life in the Massachusetts Bay colony is comprised often enough of cold weather; it follows that the people can have cold hearts. They lead hard lives. "_There but for the grace of god go you and I_," the townspeople would say to each other and to themselves. This type of fatalism permeated the prism through which they saw their lives; the individual was in no way a shaper of their destiny. This went doubly for the women. And in this world, the devil was as real as you and I.

Lydia Whittemore, née Martin, fastened her white mob cap over her hair, trying best as she could to hide its tell-tale ginger hue. The last thing she needed was for the townspeople to have another reason to see her as immodest. She still possessed a small looking-glass, a bride-gift from her late husband, which afforded her the ability to judge her appearance. Looking around her small and bleak home, Lydia was reminded of what widowhood had cost her. Her coverture meant that within days of Jackson's death, two men from the town (the Mr Stilinskis, Senior and Junior) had come round to take inventory of all their possessions. Jackson had never signed a special contract, so she could only inherit a third of her household goods. As it was, she had trained her pleading eyes and quivering lips at the younger Mr Stilinski, whom she was well aware carried a burning torch for her, and made off with a few more items than she rightly should have.

She had retained enough possessions to subsist on her own, but she was Lydia Martin, and she refused to go through this life without a fair measure of comfort.

A good woman, as the ministers would constantly remind their pulpits, is _eminent for holiness, prayerfulness, watchfulness, zeal, prudence, sincerity, humility, meekness, patience, weanedness from ye world, self-denial, public-spiritedness, diligence, faithfulness, and charity_. Lydia could not possibly care less. Bathsheba, she was not—she'd never been a good servant to her family or to her husband. Only a few close friends would have understood that Jackson Whittemore being indulgent with his wife had less to do with wanting to spoil her and more to do with her naturally being more of a decision-maker in the marriage. Lydia had taken great pains to hide this quirk lest it damage their standing in town. But it was she who had the business acumen and managed the mathematical aspect of Jackson's mercantile company. All that was gone now, sold off to other tradesmen in town.

At present, she made do baking pies and selling foodstuffs to other townspeople. And she had made sure hers were the best and most in-demand, because if she was going to have to rely on menial labor, she might as well be the best.

But it was high time she married again. And she had just the man in mind.

Sweeping her cloak over her shoulders and affixing it, Lydia plucked up the small basket of foodstuffs that she was taking with her on the way to her grandmother's house. That she was not actually going to visit her grandmother was a relatively insignificant detail. Even as a widow, her domain did not extend beyond the boundaries of her home to the outlying fields of Indian corn or barley or to the fishing stages, mills, or wharves. She had made several such trips earlier in the summer under the guise of picking berries for her famous berry pies, but now she barely had the excuse of the mushroom season to excuse her journey through the woods around town.

Lydia trod a well-worn path through the bare woods, the small basket of provisions clutched in the crook of her elbow. The dead leaves crunched underfoot, announcing her journey to any who might be nearby.

"Well met, Goody Whittemore."

The rumble of a masculine voice called from behind her, causing her such a fright she nearly jumped off the path. Spinning around, Lydia clutched at her chest, as if the action could still her jackrabbit heart. Dread tinged with something else pooled in her belly as she took in the man before her, casually holding a hunting rifle across his body. But she had a small blade hidden in her basket, so she was not afraid. Piercing blue eyes studied her face, reading much in her reaction.

"Mr Argent," she scolded him while giving him a withering glare. "I certainly hope you don't think highly of yourself for jumping out and frightening vulnerable women in the woods." She hoped that feminine outrage would dictate the script for the rest of this _brief_ interaction_. _God willing.

"_Vulnerable women_ would not be travelling these woods alone, Goody Whittemore. _Vulnerable women_ would not be behaving with such suspicious intentions." Chris Argent pointed out, switching his gun from one arm to another in what she would never mistake as a casual action. His bright eyes panned over the woods in the distance, like a sentinel, and Lydia took a moment to let her gaze sweep over him.

Christopher Argent was one of the most powerful men in the town, having served as a representative for the Massachusetts Bay colonial government. Lydia had been friends with his daughter, Allison, before she had wed Scott McCall and moved south to Providence. His own wife, Victoria, had died from a wasting sickness that had pervaded the town three years ago. She thought Mr Argent was keeping himself well, despite not having remarried. Lydia herself had been widowed for nigh upon a year now, ever since Jackson had been killed in an animal attack while he and several men had been out hunting in the woods.

She jutted her chin out and her eyes narrowed at him, having detected the undercurrent of mockery in the man's words. "What offense have I given you that you should speak such words?" He stared at her with an upraised eyebrow, apparently having forgotten that she was far from a simpering, blood-less woman. Finally, Chris Argent decided to make his meaning clear.

"You play a dangerous game, _Lydia_. I know whose company you frequent these past months in the woods." He let the revelation lay between them in the suddenly oppressive silence of the woods.

She inhaled sharply at that, her hands tightening around the basket handle until her knuckles were white. Lying and trying to convince Mr Argent that she had simply been going to her grandmother's home two hills over was no longer an option. Being caught in a lie would be infinitely worse for her, so Lydia had to think up some way to control the damage so that she still came out the better.

Her gaze downcast, she summoned wetness to her eyes, telling herself that she was a proud woman in a difficult situation and _oh, so vulnerable_before him. "I am in a precarious but unavoidable position, Mr Argent. I would thank you not to impugn my honor so. You should understand that my options are few, since Mr Whittemore was taken from me." She didn't dare look up at him, lest he detect the thread of insincerity to her words. She made sure to fidget with her basket some more. There was a rustling and from underneath her wet lashes, she saw his shoes shift into a different position. Then a sigh.

"Forgive me, Goody. I have known you from childhood to womanhood, I do not think so poorly of you. Come, let us have some tea. We have a few things to discuss, I expect."

Lydia raised her head just enough to see his kind, but restrained smile. She had little choice but to follow along behind him to the Argent property that stood just beyond the edge of the woods. Fortunately, the home was out of the sight of the town square, preventing a scandal from being laid at her feet.

And she needed to maintain the utmost image of propriety if she was to remarry well.

He led her through the back door which overlooked a structure where he clearly cleaned and stripped animal carcasses of their skin. Lydia resolutely did not look in its direction. Chris Argent's primary occupation, or skill, was as a hunter. Hence why his property was at the edge of town and partially swallowed up by the woods. They passed through the kitchen and into the parlour. In the corner, she spied a bed with a bolster, pillows, and blankets. The upper chambers were probably used for the storage of foodstuffs and equipment.

In the kitchen area, he had a cupboard, a great chest, and a table with several rustic chairs. Lydia was invited to take a seat while he stoked the fire and set a kettle of water to boiling. He didn't begin a conversation with her while he prepared two worn porcelain cups of tea. Lydia didn't volunteer any inane babbling, and instead placed her basket on top of the table and began to pull the items out.

Mr Argent saw that she meant for them to snack on her provisions, and laid down two wooden plates and a knife for her. She'd been planning on securing a proposal of marriage today, and as such, had brought her best items with her. She had several buttermilk biscuits, a small jar of her famous fig preserves, several slices of thinly sliced salt-cured ham, and a small cloth containing cheese from her two goats. The secret to her cheese was that she added smashed bits of dried rosemary to the liquid as it began to curdle and form a ball.

She sipped daintily at her cup of tea as Mr Argent, sat next to her at the table, helped himself to a sandwich of the four ingredients. She made a great effort not to preen at his reaction to the scrumptious fare. "I now see what the townspeople have been waxing lyrical about for the past year, Goody. Clearly, I have been remiss to not purchase food from you." He licked his thumb to rid them of crumbs.

She smiled wanly, for she was supposed to be in trouble. "If I do something, I prefer to be the best." She reminded him. She could feel his eyes on her as he finished his tea. The porcelain made a tinkling noise when he placed it back on the saucer.

"Lydia," he began sombrely. "I hope you will allow me to hold you in such familiarity, given that we will be having a rather personal discussion. I wish you to understand that I am not of one mind to punish you, but rather to help you out of whatever situation you have found yourself in."

He did not offer familiarity with his own name in return, Lydia noted. "Yes, Mr Argent, I do understand that."

"This is what I have ascertained thus far: you have been visiting the elder Mr Hale since August. I want you to understand that men like Peter Hale, they are wolves in the night, looking to take advantage of innocent young women like you…"

She let a tinge of mock outrage that wasn't entirely fabricated through her voice. "I'm hardly innocent! I _have_ been married," she argued back. She had been aware, as many children had, of what went on in the marriage bed, having slept on a pallet near her parent's bed as a young girl. Half-muffled sounds and shapes in the night had become more understood when she had married Jackson. That aspect of their marriage, despite an awkward beginning, had been pleasant. He had been a good husband; never cruel to her in that way men could sometimes be. She would never have borne it otherwise.

"Naïve, then."

He is a lot closer to her now. She can feel the heat from his body upon hers. "I would implore you to give description of all the liberties you have permitted Mr Hale. I do not wish to see you punished, I foreswear, but rather to save your immortal soul."

She looks down or away from him as she stumbles over some descriptions. She had never lain with him and he had never attempted such familiarity. They had simply embraced, and at this she makes sure to blush for Mr Argent. Mr Hale's own hands did move over her clothing, she admits, but she had implored him to cease. There had been a kiss.

"With many arguments, he enticed me to the act of uncleanness, but" she insisted, "God has hitherto helped me resist him."

She can feel the heaviness of Mr Argent's gaze upon her. "And where was this kiss?" This was an altogether bold line of questioning for a man like him to be asking a widow like her. Lydia let her eyes water and hot, fat tears streamed down her face. He brushed them away, and the callouses on his fingertips sent a tingling sensation skittering through her. "_Now, now,_ Lydia. It's simply your nature as a woman. You are naturally weak and given to sin. We should have- _I _should have done a better job of ensuring that. You have no father, no husband, no man to help safeguard your chastity."

Blah, blah, it was nothing she hadn't heard from one of the town ministers. Women were not berated for the sin of Eve. The blame lay with Adam because Even's sin was not a sin at all, merely an inevitable consequence of her weak nature. Woman was susceptible to suggestion and it was for that reason she required protection. Not because she was innocent, but because at her root, she was not.

It was worse when aimed at widows like Lydia (Martin) Whittemore. Widows had known the pleasures of the flesh, and once they lacked a husband, they were doubly susceptible to temptation. "He who wooeth a widow must go stiff before," the disgusting knave of a tutor, Mr Harris had simpered within her earshot one day at the market. She had been accused once or twice of being 'merrily disposed' towards other men in the town, and after trying to ascertain which man she might be inclined to wed, she had alighted on her own particular solution.

Her virtue was the ultimate trump, and Lydia Whittemore was a shrewd bargainer. "It's lonely in my home, Mr Argent. I'm lonely and _bored_. I wish to marry again, and then Mr Hale was requesting some of my preserves and cheeses, and I was kind and polite in his presence. I had thought he wished to make his marital intentions soon obvious, and it would be made acceptable. How do I use sharp words towards a man like that?"

She flung herself sideways in the chair, away from Mr Argent, breathing hard enough that the shape of her bosom underneath the dress shifted. It was the most logical quandary for a woman to be in- she would have had to go along with Peter Hale's roguish intentions, because to resist or ask for help would be tantamount to an admission of complicity. And then a firm hand was on her knees, sliding her back around to face the stern man next to her. Mr Argent placed his hands around her upper arms, forcing her to remain still. Perhaps he intended to lend some modicum of comfort, as well.

"You need to understand that what passed between you and Mr Whittemore will not transpire the same with Mr Hale. Men like that, well, they can charm you with the unctuousness of their words; and they can woo you and pretend that when you say 'Nay', they would halt their attentions. But once you surrender, _and you would surrender_…Lydia, it would not be pleasant."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "However do you mean?"

She looked up at him, directly into his eyes, and this proved to be his unbecoming. Mr Argent was but inches away from her own face and upon the receipt of her tearful, wide-eyed gaze, pressed his lips—framed as they were by a casual scruff— against her own.

But she was a widow and there were rules for this game; she had to follow the script.

Lydia permitted this for a moment, and enjoyed the simple pleasure of another man's lips against hers. His mouth was sticky and sweet from the fig preserves. All the breath exited her body, and then she was gasping and making to jump backwards in shock.

To resist would be tantamount to an admission of complicity. And Mr Argent, on some level, understood he had a role to play as well.

"You must— you need to understand," he exulted as she babbled half in alarm, half in anticipation. With rough movements, Mr Argent had undone the hooks and stays of her dress and ripped it away, leaving her in her shift. She found herself bent over the dining table, her bosom pressed into the rough wood. She clutched at it and squirmed as she attempted to stand back up. The cutlery from their feast rattled as they were swept to the side. One plate toppled over onto the floor. This was altogether a different kind of liberty than Peter Hale or even her dear husband had ever taken with her.

"Lie still," he murmured. "You must understand how it would be."

With that, Mr Argent flipped up the hem of her shift, exposing her cotton pantaloons to his gaze. And then his body was covering hers, curved over her back and she could feel him intimately against her barely clothed bottom. "This is how your Mr Hale would have you, Lydia. Little better than a rutting animal."

The way she was contorted, and the steady press of his pelvis against her bottom, she could feel a hardness against the relatively exposed space between her thighs. She couldn't help herself any longer, her buttocks jerked against his and pleasure sparked from her secret woman's place. Lydia moaned, the sound reverberating in the sudden silence of the house.

Behind her, there was a strained sigh. "Oh, darling, you know— you knew you needed this." His hand was pressing her down into the table from between her shoulder blades. "Yes, sir." She murmured; ready.

The violence of the first slap of his hand over her bottom had her twisting away and crying out in pain. Each successive strike was equal to the first in force, and Lydia provided a chorus of wails to motivate him. And then he halted, and Lydia was left to stand there, shuddering under his hand. Her bottom burned, and the place between her thighs burned in its own way, as well.

Before she realized it, she was being lifted back into a standing position. The entire kitchen and parlour seemed so much brighter than before and she looked about in a daze. She let herself collapse bonelessly into his arms and Mr Argent swept her up, carrying her over to the wolf-skin that lay before the small fire.

"Mr Hale might treat you thusly, Lydia, but it needn't be that way," he murmured as he rapidly divested her of her pantaloons and stockings, leaving her bared to her waist in her thin shift. The pelt was soft underneath her bottom, and her thighs splayed wantonly before she attempted to close them. "_No_, Lydia." And with that, her knees were wrenched apart and she was bared to his intent gaze. Lydia twisted her head away, her cap had long since fell off and her hair had come loose. She let the ginger strands cover her face.

_Why? Why wasn't he?_

And then she heard him fumbling with his coat, hunting shirt, and breeches. And then he was there, hot and heavy and _ready_. His arms curled underneath her shoulders, lifting her closer to his partially bare torso and she could tell from the painful tug of her hair that he had curled the strands around a fist. Staring up at him from underneath his chin, she could see that he'd completely removed his cravat. She wanted to kiss the bulge midway up his throat. But not yet.

He was pressing into her, so insistently, and she did react then, for it had been over a year since she had been with a man, Mr Hale notwithstanding. He shushed her, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

The sensations wracking her body were intense.

Lydia bucked her lower half and it was to her benefit that he thought she was endeavoring to escape it, and he only shafted her the more deeply. She gulped in fistfuls of oxygen, her smaller hands clutching his partially undone shirt, not quite exerting enough pressure to push him off, but keeping him from being able to bend his head close enough to capture her lips in a kiss.

Some men would have women be whores in bed. She had to follow the script. She denied him a kiss.

"Let the paroxysm come, Lydia. Think of it as an exorcism, you're releasing the sin, the weakness from your body."

She doesn't allow herself to wrap her legs around his waist. She simply continues to provide sweet resistance to the steady thrusts of his pelvis and makes whining noises as the pleasure wounds her tauter and tauter.

And then she's sparking, she's sparking…

And an inferno swelled up inside her, shuddering its way through and consuming her entire body. Her bottom jerked and twisted upon him (_his cock_, she'd been taught that word) as she sobbed out her completion, hiding her face once more.

And then she's limp and quiescent, no longer holding Mr Argent away. He pants above her, groaning with what she assumes is his own satisfaction. She certainly feels wetter inside. He kisses her a second time, and this time she's sure he tastes the saltiness of her tears. Now, _now_she allows him this intimate liberty.

No words are exchanged as Mr Argent withdraws and pulls her to her feet. He gets as far as helping her back into her pantaloons and stockings before he cups her face and forces her to look up at him. "It is clear that you require a stern hand to combat your natural weaknesses, Lydia. I shall make overtures this week, to make public my intention to court you. It is pertinent we do this soon, since you may be quickening with child as we speak."

The man geninuely thinks she's trapped now. _You were not the one who set the trap,_ she sneers to herself.

But she nods submissively and when he pulls her into his arms (and she can feel his organ limp beneath her breasts, as short as she is) and kisses the top of her head, she catches their reflection in a polished silver tray hanging from the cupboard.

_Goody Argent._

_Lydia Argent._

_Lydia Argent (née Martin)_

She smiles widely now, and in the distorted image, she can make out the whiteness of her teeth.


End file.
